


Orange Eyes, Bloody Knives and Demon Pie

by Winchester_Werewolf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demonic Possession, Gen, Murder, Season/Series 05, orange eyed demon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 06:59:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winchester_Werewolf/pseuds/Winchester_Werewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1973, an orange-eyed demon possessed a newly wed, happy wife and brutally murdered her husband and newborn.<br/>It followed this reign of terror for six more years before it was finally exorcised.<br/>But after 32 years, it's gone top-side.<br/>And it's pissed, leaving a teenage girl behind in the cross-fire.</p><p>(Season 5 AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orange Eyes, Bloody Knives and Demon Pie

**Author's Note:**

> yes the title rhymes ._.

There was the sound of screaming from upstairs, quite distinct, but I tried to block it out as best as I could. The person who was screaming wasn’t really that person anymore; something had rotten somewhere deep inside of her… turned her evil. She was hammering at the door to the basement, but I had lined it with road salt and I had made lines of it all throughout the basement in my panic. I sat in the centre of many rings of salt. 

There was nothing getting through.

Well, I hoped, I had copied it out of a Farson James book; if something evil was coming to get you, grab the salt. I had been in the basement when it all started; I was putting away the apricot reserves in the spare pantry when the screaming had started. 

Running upstairs I had seen the most sane, kindest woman in the world with a knife in her hand, and Sean holding a bleeding wound in his stomach. There was blood on her flowered apron, and it was all over her hands.

Her eyes were straight orange. 

That was where the feeling of immediate repulsion hit me, and I had run back down the stairs as Elliot came into kitchen. It was then that I started making lines after lines after lines of salt as the screams of my foster family came from behind the bolted basement door. Screams for help, for mercy, for her to stop…

I ended up in the furthest right corner, cardboard boxes hid me from the immediate sight of the door, and I fashioned a weapon out of a shade of broken apricot jar with some mildewed paper tape wrapped around to make a handle. It was more of a comfort than an actual means of protection. 

After several hours, most of the screaming had stopped, and that was when She had started to talk through the door, and pound on it, almost knocking it from it’s hinges, howling she was coming to get me too. No matter what, she was going to have my intestines on a plate and make me eat them while I bleed out like a ‘stuck pig’. That I really was a good for nothing foster kid who no one would ever love. That my birth mother had abandoned me because I really was disgusting, that She would put me out of my misery if I just opened the door and got rid of the salt. After she said many of those things, there was a crash somewhere else in the house and then her voice stopped. Many more banging followed it, crashing and then, I swear I heard several gunshots fire. There was a triage of other male voices floating down from the basement door. 

I grabbed my makeshift glass dagger tightly in my hand, and the glass on one side cut through the tape and into my palm. Another scream ripped through the air as I felt blood start to drip down my hand and my heart thumped in my chest. 

The new voices started to get louder, closer, and I was starting to get ready to pounce, cause some damage. They were going to be evil too: I had the feeling. It always happened in a Farson James book and so far, the past few hours had been one. The guys were going to be Her accomplices. They were going to kill me and torture me and make me eat my own intestines. 

Sweat was prickling down my face as a rattling came from the door: someone was picking the lock. Maybe they wouldn’t find me from behind the cardboard box, maybe they wouldn’t bother combing the whole basement. But I couldn’t get my hopes too high, I was going to have to keep quiet and if they found me, well I had the shard of glass. 

It was then that the basement door opened with a click and swung open, yellow light from the kitchen poured in. Immediately, I dived into the corner, crouching down low so that my head was hidden from over the cardboard box. 

“Whoa, dude, someone spilt the shalt shaker…” One voice said, definitely male.

“Shut up, ya idjit. Is anyone there?” This one was gruffer, surly and older. Sort of like a lumberjack.

“It’s okay, we’re not going to hurt you; we’re the good guys.” This one was a lot kinder than the others, deep but not overly so. 

I hadn’t realised I had stopped breathing when they came in, and I cowered against the wall, my heart pounded harder, blood was surging through my ears. 

“That thing wasn’t your mother, it was a Demon-“ The second voice started, but there was thump. “What was that for?”

“Don’t,” The first voice said, less surly than before. “Let’s split up and look.”  
There was footsteps spreading out around me, and one pair was getting alarmingly close. My lungs seized up and I grabbed the shard harder, slicing my hand open even more, but I crouched my legs: ready to spring. 

A tall man, who must have been about six foot four or three with chocolate brown hair and green eyes. He wore a lumberjack shirt beneath a brown suede jacket, a pair of jeans with a slight tear on the left thigh near the seam, and some worker boots. At first he didn’t see me, because he was poking behind the water boiler, which I noticed was a much better hiding place than the one where I was. 

My heart stopped dead when he turned around and we locked eyes. 

I tightened my hand around the glass shard and got ready, despite the fact that my hand was bright red with blood and it was getting down my arm and onto my shirt. As he took a tentative step closer to me I displayed the glass shard, and the blood on my hands. 

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” He said, and I lowered the knife as he came towards me. He tore a strip from his shirt and gently prized my hand open, taking the shard from my hand and throwing it to the side and binding it. 

“Found her,” He said, aloud to the others, and then to me, “Do you need help getting up?” 

I shook my head, but he took my good hand anyway and pulled me up. 

“You look like you’re going to faint,” The second voice said, and it came from a light brown haired, green eyed six foot two man, who was very, very handsome. Male model type. 

I nodded again as my knees gave out.  


¶

Leather, I could smell it, old and used and dusty, with hints of whiskey and gunpowder. There was something warm and heavy on top of me, which added to the musky smell of leather. My hand was throbbing, and it was bound tightly with plaid-patterned fabric.

There was a rumbling beneath me, and it didn’t take rocket science to know I was in a car. It was cool as well, there was probably a window open, and for the first few moments I thought I was blind, until I realized that it was dark out.

My body was sore and stiff as I stat up, and I reach up and de-crick my neck with my good hand.

“Hey, you’ve come too.” Said Ken-Doll, turning in his seat to look at me.

I nodded, stretching some more before slumping against the seat behind me. 

“How are you feeling?” 

I didn’t answer. I couldn't. I stared at him.

He hmpf’d, looking at the other man before returning his gaze to me.

“Do you have any other family that can stay with?” He asked, losing his nice-guy act and there was a distinct business-like tone in his voice. 

I shook my head, “No.” 

“No? Come on –“

“T-they weren’t my family.” I say, and I twitch the fingers of my bad hand, sending pain shooting up my arm. 

“Who were they?” He asked, looking curious but cautious. 

“Fosters.” 

“Fosters? As in, foster parents?” 

“No, fosters as in foster raccoons. Of course foster parents you retard!” I spit, giving him the stink-eye.

“Aren’t you charming,” He says, rolling his eyes whilst the other tall one snickers. “What’s your name anyway?”

“Jane.” 

“Well Jane, I’m Dean and this is my brother Sam. The old guy is Bobby.” He says my name like he doesn’t believe I’m telling the truth. “That lady wasn’t who—“

“Carroll wasn’t really Carroll. Her eyes were orange.” I say, looking down at the blood-soaked plaid shirt wrapped around my hand.

“Carroll was possessed by a demon, a rare one at that.” Dean said, talking slowly.

“Demon as in from-hell-with-love demon?” I asked dumbly, my eyes getting wide.

“Yeah. Exactly that.” Dean said, and I nodded slowly.

“Okay then,” I say slowly, twitching my fingers again, letting the pain wash over me.

“Okay then? That’s it?” Dean stares at me like I’ve gone insane.

I probably have.

“I’d rather have a freak out when I’m not bleeding out.” I say simply, my gaze is stern. 

Dean pulls a “not bad” face, nods and says

“We can drop you at a hospital or patch you up ourselves.” 

“I don’t want to go to hospital. Social Services will stick their noses in, and I'll be sent to a funny farm.”

“So Sammy here will fix your hand with fishing line and a mattress needle, topped of with whiskey germ-killer.” 

Dean was trying to scare me into going to the hospital. What an ass-hole.

“Fine,” I slump more in the seat, and turn to stare out the window. 

“Fine.” Dean answered, turning around to stare out the front wind-shield.

**Author's Note:**

> Any Mary Sue. Sue me (Pun intended)
> 
> I read in Bobby Singer's Guide to Hunting that there was an orange-eyed demon who raised hell back in the '70s by possessing happily married wives and using them to slaughter their whole family. Apparently it was exorcised and sent back under, but I got this idea that it went top-side.
> 
> I polished this off to try and apologize for the shit-stain that was The Lost Hunter. I think i just made it worse.


End file.
